


A Christmas Miracle

by theowlinsomniac



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, and mostly about murphy's motorcycle, completely unbeta'd, this is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlinsomniac/pseuds/theowlinsomniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Christmas miracles were real (which they weren’t, because if they were Alex Murphy wouldn’t have died on Christmas Even seventeen years ago) he needed one right about now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> for lam, jen, and grace. merry christmas to the best murphy stan friends i could have ever asked for.

His bike broke down. Granted, it was a shitty old bike, but it was still his only way of getting to the hospital before visiting hours were over. He tears off his helmet and drops it on the concrete. If this day could have gotten any worse, it just had. He groans, slapping both his palms against his forehead and gazing down at his smoking motorcycle. The metal was steaming hot, the parts’ hum becoming quieter and quieter. Finally the thing sputtered and coughed, then  died on the sidewalk. Murphy kicked it hard, hearing the metal scrape against the cement.  

He yanks his foot away, feeling the sharp pain shooting through his leg. Kicking a heavy object entirely made of metal wearing non-steel toe’d boots was not the best idea. He curses and kneels down on the ground, grabbing his foot as if it would help. He groans louder, sitting back and putting his elbows on his knees. He glares at his piece of junk bike. At best he could sell it for parts. It was broken down for good this time. 

It was a 2006 Hyosung, rusty and bent out of shape after all the accidents it had survived. Murphy could admit he wasn’t the best driver, but he still treated his baby like a gem. Now the diamond had turned to coal, and he was screwed. It was Christmas, for God’s sake, and the world around him was bright with twinkling lights and decorations, and he was in a black shirt and leather jacket hoping to sneak into his dying mother’s hospital room to listen to old Christmas stories about his dead father. He closes his eyes. If Christmas miracles were real (which they weren’t, because if they were Alex Murphy wouldn’t have died on Christmas Even seventeen years ago on his way to get his son flu medicine) he needed one right about now. 

Murphy hoists himself off the ground and slips his phone out of his pocket. The screen is cracked from the fall he took when the bike crashed. He makes an animalistic noise and slams his face into his palm once more before checking the time. He had about half an hour before he would miss his window. His mother would never forgive him. And even if she was tied to an IV, she’d find a way to kick his ass. Hearing her ramble on about Alex Murphy was incredibly unappealing, especially when he never heard any of these stories when she was throwing his things away and telling him he was responsible for his father’s death back in the day. It was almost like she was trying to make up for her past sins. He didn’t want to be apart of all that, but she was his mother. And she was finally sober enough to distinguish him from any other man around her (even if sometimes she called him Alex because of the pain meds). So he had an obligation to go. 

Murphy places his hands on his hips and looks up and down the road. There were a few apartments, a stretch of vacant land, and then about three quarters of a mile up the road there was a bar. He was coming straight from there when he broke down. He figures he can find a ride from there if he walks back, but he isn’t sure if he’ll have enough time. He takes a step towards the bar and the motorcycle behind him makes a loud clanking noise. He jumps, nearly shitting himself from the surprise, and turns, only to see the bike laying completely still. 

“You little shit,” he calls to it, and suddenly his eyes are blinded by light. He lifts a hand to shield his face, and he very quickly realizes a motorcyclist is coming his way. He jumps out from the sidewalk into the street, waving his arms high to stop the driver. Maybe he could hitch a ride with--

The guy slows down, coming to a stop and gazing over him skeptically. Even though Murphy can’t see his face he feels the guy’s eyes burning a hole through him. The cyclist reaches up and pulls his helmet off, revealing -- holy shit -- the face of an angel. The man’s curls look heavenly, rolling off the top of his head like ocean waves, and his face is sun kissed and freckly, like someone out of a dream. Or a porno. He can’t decide if this is real or not. Maybe he hit his head on the concrete on his fall and he’s in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Maybe if that were true he’d get there on time, but right now he’s gawking at a complete stranger who looks at him like he’s an ant in the sink. 

Murphy swallows and finds the courage to muster up something to say, “Sorry-- my bike-- broken-- I-- uh-- need a ride.” He wants to punch himself. Repeatedly. The guy turns his head and looks back at Murphy’s bike. He grimaces, then look back at Murphy with pity. By the time it takes him to do all that, Murphy’s already given him a once over. 

His bike it top notch, costs more money than Murphy would ever be worth in his entire life, even with some sort of life insurance policy and a trust fund. His jacket looks like real leather (unlike his, which he still doesn’t know is real or fake-- it was on sale and it’s warm, so who cares?) and his whole body looks hard and edged. He had biceps bulging through the damn jacket. Murphy sucks in his chub just in case the guy plays for his team and might be looking his way. He slicks back his hair with his hand, even if it falls right back in his face, and shrugs. 

“Can you help me?” he finally says, after it becomes evident that the man isn’t going to respond quickly. 

“Sure.” he says after a long pause, lifting his chin to motion for Murphy to hop on. 

“I’ll get my helmet.” he says, jogging over to the wreckage and pulling his helmet off the ground. He turns, catching the guy’s eyes dragging from his feet to his head. When they make eye contact, the other man seems flustered, but is acting like he didn’t just get caught staring at Murphy’s ass. Murphy’s hardened face cracks into a full out wolfish grin as he slides onto the (incredibly comfortable) seat behind the guy and slips on his helmet. 

“What’s your name?” the guys says, his voice sweet like honey and deeper than Murphy expects. 

“J-- Murphy. Call me Murphy.” the guy nods, sliding on his own helmet and revving up the bike’s engine. 

“Bellamy. Where we goin’?” He asks loudly over the engine roar. 

“Griffin Memorial.” Bellamy glances back in surprise, but takes off like a shot a moment later, causing Murphy to grip onto Bellamy tighter than he’s ever gripped something in his life. Both of his arms are snaked around Bellamy’s middle, his chest pressed to Bellamy’s back. He tries to catch his breath and ignore the warm, solid feeling of Bellamy against him, and instead tries to see what direction the guy is taking him in. 

They get their quickly, without words exchanged. They wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the motorcycle’s engine, so they don’t even try to make conversation. Murphy decides for himself he’ll come back for the bike another day. Right now the priority was getting to his mom and not making a complete fool of himself in front of the hottest man he’s ever met. He still can’t believe his hands are laying in the man’s washboard abs that he hasn’t seen but he’s sure they’re there. 

When they arrive, Bellamy stops the bike and pulls out the stand, taking off his helmet as Murphy takes just a little too long (on purpose, really) to slide his hands out from around him. 

“Thanks,” Murphy says, a little too loud. His ears are still buzzing from the smooth sound of the bike. It was like music to his ears. 

“Don’t mention it. It’s Christmas afterall.” Bellamy says, dismounting and smirking at him, “You think you’ll need help with that bike back there?” he asks. Murphy feels his face grow hot. 

“Nah. Probably gonna scrap it.” he replies, trying to be nonchalant about destroying his only prized possession. He hadn’t even thought about how he’s going to get home tonight. 

Bellamy is quiet, looking around, trying to find something to keep the conversation alive. “You dying or something? Got a concussion from the crash?” he asks. Murphy tilts his head. Oh. 

“No I’m here to uh… visit my mom.” 

Bellamy’s face drops. Murphy almost barfs. He doesn’t want this guy’s sympathy. 

“That’s cool of you,” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets, “... you gonna tell her about your bike?” 

Murphy shrugs, giving a chuckle, “Probably not. She thinks I drive a car.” 

Bellamy lets out a laugh full throttle, and Murphy feels his heart beating rapid fire to the sound of the man’s beautiful, melodious chuckle. “Damn. So you’ll need a ride after you’re done?” he asks. Murphy swallows, looking away. 

“Yeah. Guess so.” 

Bellamy’s face lights up. “Here,” he pulls out his phone shoving it in Murphy’s hands, “I don’t have anything else to do tonight. Already did all my family shit earlier today. Put in your number and I’ll text you. Then you can text me when you need to be picked up. I can uh, take you home.” 

Murphy is already dialing in his number -- actually, he can’t dial it fast enough. He stutters, “Y-yeah, that would be great. I-- uh-- I’ll call. It’ll be about an hour. Just have to talk to her for a bit. Listen to her stories.” 

Bellamy takes his phone back and looks at the number on the screen like its the best gift he’s ever received. “Alright.” he replies, looking smug. “See you then.” 

He walks back to his bike, brushing shoulders with Murphy (damn, he was good. that sent electric shocks all up and down his spine) and mounting the bike. 

Murphy gives an awkward half wave and watched him drive away. When he snaps out of his trance, he bolts inside, giving the nurse an apologetic look when he notices he’s almost two minutes late. She lets him in anyways, because who’s going to deny some kid the right to see his mother on her deathbed on Christmas of all days. 

He enters the room quietly, seeing she’s still awake, watching the last few minutes of A Christmas Story. 

“Hey Mom,” he starts, and she turns her head to see him. Her eyes, steeled and sad, light up instantly. She reaches out to him, taking his hand in hers. Her fingers are so frail, so thin, so he’s careful not to squeeze too tight. She looks as if he’s come to visit after months of being away. She looks at him like she used to look at him when he was little, before his father died. She smiles as he pulls a chair up beside her bed. She lifts a hand to stroke his hair, and he lets her, even if all he wants to do is push her away and call Bellamy. 

She starts it off how she always does, and then it’s downhill from there, “I didn’t think you were coming…” 


End file.
